


Followed

by steveelotaku



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Bisexual Jill Valentine, Feminist Themes, Game: Resident Evil 3 Remake (2020), Gen, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, It's Not Paranoia If They're Really Out To Get You, Paranoia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, S.T.A.R.S.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:21:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23555227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steveelotaku/pseuds/steveelotaku
Summary: Jill Valentine has felt followed ever since the Mansion Incident. Now, ironically, she is stuck at home--but the paranoia never truly goes away.
Kudos: 16





	Followed

**Author's Note:**

> The works of Stellar_Shiva were a distinct influence on this work--go read her excellent Resident Evil material.   
> I firmly headcanon Jill Valentine as bi, leaning strongly towards women as her preference (but if Chris was ever more than professionally interested/platonically involved, I have no reason to think she'd pass up a date.)

“Do you want to meet for coffee?”

The words echoed in Jill’s head as she laughed bitterly to herself. It hadn’t been so long since that nightmare in the mansion. It wasn’t even that Brad wasn’t a close friend. The fact was, even before she’d been suspended, nothing had been normal since that night.

Jill had walked for years with pepper spray in her purse. When she’d been through military training, that had changed to a knife. She told herself she’d never have to use them on a day out in Raccoon City, but bitter experience told her otherwise.

At 14, she’d had to pretend to be calling home to escape someone walking too closely. At 16, she’d split a guy’s lip after he grabbed her. At 18, going clubbing for the first time, she’d been evicted by security because she’d twisted a guy’s arm hard enough to break it. Never mind that he’d been harassing her friend, never mind that she’d only gotten more of the same from him.

S.T.A.R.S. was probably the first place since her service she felt at all secure around people. It was a weird feeling, she knew, because everyone called her “the life of the party.” She was good with jokes. She was a pleasant drunk, or at least, that’s what she let on. Most of the time, she stayed sober. All her life, she had a horrible feeling something was following her.

Chris Redfield was probably the first man who’d made her feel at ease at work, Brad being a close second. Both were funny, easy-going men who were consummate professionals. Chris made terrible puns. Brad would joke about the irony of someone as meek as him joining a special ops branch of the police. Insecurities and puns—she could handle that. She _related_ to that. Barry, too, was someone she trusted—he felt like a father figure. Her own father had taught her about as much about firearms, and Barry took her under his wing in much the same way.

About the only person in S.T.A.R.S. who made her skin crawl was Albert Wesker. There was something in him that reminded her of every douche at a high school party. Oh, sure, he had a refined accent, and quoted classical literature, but the frosted tips and perpetual sunglasses _screamed_ “I do what I want,” which was never a good thing for someone who was supposed to be leading their unit. As one of the few female members of S.T.A.R.S., she always had her suspicions about him.

She’d found a photo of Rebecca in a basketball uniform in Wesker’s desk, once. She’d never normally hunt through someone else’s stuff, but Wesker had told her to fetch a flash drive, and far be it from her to question that. She never brought it up, not even to Rebecca—just another bit of guilt eating away at her like Wesker’s awful cooking. Guiltily, she thought of her own thoughts about Rebecca, sighed, and told herself at least she’d never _acted_ on them. It had been bad enough under Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell back in the army. She didn’t need Wesker having any ammo against her, so she didn’t talk too much to women—just as well S.T.A.R.S. was almost all men.

It shouldn’t have surprised her as much as it did that Wesker had betrayed them. There was hint after hint, she supposed, in hindsight. That haughty little “Jill” he would often say when she cared too much. The arrogance in his posture, the cold, glowering stare behind those fucking shades…

But it was always “you can’t just judge men like that!” “Not all men” would hurt her. _It’s pretty fucking obvious_ , she wanted to scream. _Of course I don’t think all men want to hurt me_. _Of course I don’t think every passing shadow is a sexual predator. But I’ve just met far too many assholes who don’t know when to fucking quit._

“Do you want to meet for coffee?”

“No,” she’d said. “Sorry, Brad, but no. I…I can’t.”

And he’d let it rest. Hadn’t tried to pressure her. He and the survivors often ordered her pizza, burgers, whatever she didn’t order herself. When Irons suspended her for digging into the most blatant coverup in history, cases of beer would turn up at her apartment.

Half the time, she’d crack a beer open, and put another on the other side of the table, pretending Chris or Rebecca was there. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t even good friendship. It was desperation.

All the while, the clocks ticked, and Jill felt her heart half-dead and half-panicked. Sometimes she’d expect a sniper to be looking in through her window. Other times she’d hear barking outside and take a peek with her gun drawn—only to find a golden retriever and not a monstrous zombie dog. When thunder rolled outside, she had to keep telling herself Wesker hadn’t sent a new Tyrant for her. Wesker had _died_ , she’d _seen_ it happen. There was no way he could come back, right?

And then there was the insomnia. The fucking insomnia. The pills helped—though she _hated_ knowing she’d paid Umbrella, her tormentors, for the privilege of being able to sleep again thanks to _their_ damage. When the pills worked, which seemed more and more random lately, it was a plunge into a yawning gulf of nightmares.

Snakes. Spiders. Zombies. It was a little girl’s set of nightmares. All the things that could never happen. And yet—they all happened. And most damning of all was Wesker’s fucking smirk in some of them. That smug-ass British smile that said _I have a place in here. Forever._

All told, sometimes, the insomnia felt _better_.

The calendar had so many crossed off dates—the days counting down til she could leave. And yet, she found herself hating the sight of the thing.

Why hadn’t she left Raccoon City? Why hadn’t she just applied her talents elsewhere? Why not be a good little girl, swallow her pride, and just let rotten fucking men like Wesker and Irons run the world?

_Because it’s not right_ , she thought. _Because some things matter._

“When are you going to get married?”

“When are you going to do something with your life?”

“When are you going to think about something other than fashion?”

All those questions her parents drilled her with until she’d joined the army. All things they thought _mattered_ , at least until she joined S.T.A.R.S. If she went home again, it’d be just more of the same.

She laughed softly, thinking about that last one. _Oh dad, if only you knew it wasn’t fashion I was thinking about…_

The house arrest, ironically, had not put to rest her fear of being followed. She had nowhere to go, but every night, her mind would tell her someone was following her. Dream of sunny shores and walks with someone good vanished. Instead, there was only her shitty apartment and the cold, indifferent city by night.

Sometimes it was Wesker who stalked her through her dreams.

Sometimes it was zombies, dogs, any number of things.

Sometimes it was a woman covered in spiders, one that looked oddly like her.

And sometimes, nothing would follow her, but she would stare into the mirror and rot, decay, and become a mindless monster.

Her window panes rattled at night from the driving rain. She swore some nights she heard something whispering her name, whispering the names of her colleagues.

But most often, it whispered only one thing.

“S.T.A.R.S….”

Jill woke up three days before she planned to leave. She didn’t know when she’d made a habit of falling asleep completely dressed, but it seemed to be her new normal. She thought about Brad. She thought about Chris. She thought about girls she’d seen in magazines. Wondering if they were as afraid as she was. Wondered if Rebecca was coping any better than she’d been.

And then the phone rang, and everything went to hell.

Before she hit the ground running, before everything burned, she choked, realizing one thing.

There had been someone following her.

It had been whispering to her even as it arrived.

“When are you going to find a man?” dad had asked her.

_Probably not before one finds me,_ she noted with grim irony, running into the night, that dreadful voice calling behind her only one thing…

“S.T.A.R.S…” 


End file.
